Page 94 of Bedeviled

She smiles at us all, as though that’s a highly unlikely scenario and not like, something that happens during Samhain when we basically invite fairies Earthside for some bride capture shenanigans.

My instructor pivots her discussion, focusing next on how the magical signature of wards can strengthen and weaken certain areas of the spell. But my mind is still reeling at the revelation that fairies can use their magic to hurt us, while we can hardly do so against them.

I guess the hexes I laid at the Khuno River palace won’t work on the fairy.

What a fucking shame.

However, long ago I had used my power against Eislyn and it had worked. Had it simply been a lucky shot? Something nearly anomalous?

I only stop musing on this topic when, after class, I swing by the apothecary. All thoughts of fairies and power fall away as I consider instead the very human spells I want to use against a certain very human sorcerer.

I have the attending witch place a contraception spell on my wedding ring as well as pick up a spare amulet for the same purpose.

We’ll see just how quickly Memnon discovers these.

The sun is setting by the time I leave Cauldron Hall and head up the steps of Beldame Library, the daggers I now always wear tapping gently against my thighs as I walk.

As futile an effort as researching Eislyn seems to be, I’m still determined to try to find out whatever I can on her. I know she’s out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, just as aware of me and Memnon as we are of her.

So I enter the library , this time not bothering to use the reference desk.

Instead, I snag a lantern hanging from an aisle end, and lifting it, I begin wandering up and down the rows of books. The shadows dance upon the spines and a small herd of scarab beetles scuttle off a cluster of books when my light passes over them.

I hope to the Goddess those are someone’s familiars.

I scour the aisles, searching for any book titles that might be helpful. The letters on the spines of many of the books jiggle and shift as I pass by them, each one spelled to translate themselves into the reader’s preferred language.

I move farther back, pulling out this book and that, trying to find titles that might be relevant. “I’m going to find you, you little fae fucker,” I mutter under my breath.

And, eventually, I do.

I’ve flipped through and returned five different books when I open Portraits of the Immortal Folk.

I feel a rush in my veins as soon as I begin flipping through its pages. It contains paintings over the last three millennia of fae. Many of the earliest ones are abstract, but the more recent images are quite detailed.

I run my fingers over pointed ears, marveling at the glittering, capricious eyes and enigmatic smiles. Even on oil and canvas, the fae are otherworldly. If witches tend toward exaggerated features, then the fae tend toward alluring ones. I find myself captivated by each one of them, then shivering when I stare little too long at their inhuman eyes.

And then, seemingly out of the blue, I find her.

Eislyn.

My breath catches in my throat as I take in the image. It’s stylized in that way most Medieval European paintings of women seem to be—ghostly pale skin, excessively round and bare foreheads, somber expressions, and a distinct lack of eyelash and eyebrow hairs. And yet, despite the conventions of the times, it’s absolutely Eislyn. I cannot even say why precisely that is. She didn’t have some noticeable physical idiosyncrasy, and yet the painter captured those icy-blue eyes and that haughty expression of hers perfectly.

My finger skims over the caption beneath the photo.

Elin Thorvald circa 1459 CE

I skim what I can of the caption, but it doesn’t offer much. Quickly, I scribble down Eislyn’s pseudonym, the year of the painting and the name of this book, then I resume flipping through the rest of the images, now a bit faster, partly out of excitement about what I might find, partly out of impatience to return to the reference desk and ask for books on Elin Thorvald.

My breath catches when, near the back of the book, I stumble upon another image of her. This caption reads, “Ambroise Antier, circa 1778, Paris, France.”

In it, Eislyn’s pale golden hair is piled high on her head and decorated with features and jewels. She wears a pale blue dress adorned with a nauseating number of ruffles and bows and enough pearls to sink a ship. And yet, rather than looking ridiculous, she looks regal, mysterious.

Damn fairy.

Hurriedly I jot the information down, and finish skimming through the last of the book before I return to this latest image. My eyes take in those gleaming eyes and soft smile before they catch on her necklace.

Ropes of pearls encircle the column of her neck. Hanging from the bottom row of them is a large golden pendant with a mountain incised onto it. Encircling the image is a string of unusual letters.